


The Tower

by Pthithia



Category: The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory
Genre: Angst, Apathy, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George just has one last request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tower

The Tower of London was dark and the air stale, far fallen from the castle it had once been. This was a place for prisoners, for the accused. It was the place where they held the queen and my beloved brother.

Walking through the shadows, it was eerily silent, as though waiting for something. The air was deathly still, and it seemed as though life had not breathed here for thousands of years. The guards leading me said nothing, and despite the lack of a draft their torches flickered ominously.

They halted before a row of cells, most empty, a few occupied by a bench or two. One only held a person, a living man: my own George.

I knew then, when the guards left without a word, that my brother was lost. They cared not what things he said nor what I told him; he was condemned to die, why waste energy supervising him?

I threw myself to my knees on the cold stone floor, the thin fabric of my dress offering me little padding from the harsh rock. I grabbed at the rusting iron bars, reaching in for him, for my brother, for my one companion through it all. "George," I whispered, almost afraid to disturb the crypt-silence of the Tower. "I am here. It is I, your Marianne. Do you see?"

In the shadows and darkness, where this chamber lacked windows or light, I could still see him lift his head. His face was pale, purple bruises under his eyes, a sour twist to his mouth, and for one sickening moment the handsome brother of my childhood had become the scowling father of my adulthood. I almost shrank back at the intensity of his gaze.

"It is me, George. I have come to see you," I said gently. I had been praying for the chance to speak to him for so long, and now the moment had come and I knew not what to say.

"I heard you the first time," he said coolly, curled on the floor. His clothes were dirty, his hair dishevled, and he was hardly recognizable to me. "Well?"

"I wish to see if you are well," I said. "To see if you require anything."

He did not answer, out of contempt or confusion I knew not. It was a long time before he spoke again, and when he did it was with the voice of a man I did not know.

"We could have had more time, you know." He stared blandly at me.

"George?" I raised an eyebrow, confused.

He did not respond to his first name nor my question. He went on, bland and impassive and before, as if all his Boleyn fire had been leached from him by the treacherous Tower. "If it weren't for you. If you had not run off chasing your silly love, and then come back so soon. We could have had more time together. Months, perhaps." He was not accusing nor wistful. He was merely staring, as if commenting on the weather.

"Who? Us three?" I asked stupidly. I knew who he meant. I was no longer a naïve thirteen year old girl. I knew well what he meant.

"Francis," he said slowly, reverently, like a priest reciting prayers. "Francis and I, Mary." I noted his lack of my childhood nickname. "But you returned too soon with your silly charades and lies and now we are about to die."

He was not angry, not upset. I knew not how do deal with this attitude. Boleyns did not deal in apathy.

"You will not die," I said firmly. "The king will not go through with it."

"Do not seek to comfort me," he murmured. "I cannot be comforted."

"Brother-"

"You must stop them for him." Even in darkness I could see some old flame spark in his eyes as he thought of it. He slowly moved towards the bars, and soon it was like we were sitting together before the fire once again, in Anne's room. "You must not let them kill Francis, do you hear? Mary? You must protect him, no matter the cost. You must not let him die," he said evenly.

My heart sank. "I cannot," I whispered. "I mean nothing to the king. I am the sister of two treasonous subjects. My word means nothing."

He did not hear my words. "You must try. You must save him for me. Use your words and your wit, Mary. Remember, you are a Boleyn and a Howard, first and foremost."

At these words, words I had heard since I had come to court, since I had begun to walk, since I could lift my own head, I felt some old weariness rise in me. "So I've been told," I sighed.

George suddenly grabbed my wrist, pulling my arm through the bar's and holding me tight so that I could not go. His skin was like ice, and I cried out at the shock of being manhandled and at his icy grip. "Do not let Francis die, Mary," he said, passionately, intensely. "I could never forgive that."

"But you and Anne-"

"We are beyond saving now," he answered smoothly. "I beg you to protect Francis Weston. He is all I have left." He sounded so lost, so alone in that moment. I shuddered, and yet he did not release me.

"I will try, George," I said lowly, knowing to be making a promise I could not keep. "I will try, and if I fail do not let my effort be forgotten."

"You will not fail." His eyes bored intensely into mine, as if he did not even see me anymore. "You cannot fail. This means everything to me."

I felt my heart tremble. "I shall come see you tomorrow," I whispered, feeling my throat constrict with tears

"No. I shall not be alive tomorrow," he said sensibly with his eyes that stared and saw nothing. "Remember my words, Mary."

"George, I-"

"Leave me now. You must hurry," he interrupted, releasing my tiny wrist. He inched away, and I felt the divide between us once more.

When I did not move, he said gently. "Go, Marianne. Please."

I left.

I exited the Tower and the sun hurt my eyes, and for a moment I was blinded trying to see.

When my vision returned to me, I knew I had a narrow choice: return straight to William, as I had promised, or appeal to the king and gamble with my own freedom for my brother's last request.

I took a breath, shut my eyes, summoned my Boleyn courage, and ran to find my husband.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
